Chapter One: Tonight's Entertainment

Strawberry: …I. LOVED. THE. JOKER. He deserved a story. Saw Dark Knight literally the second it came out (midnight showing) and immediately cried at the death of Heath Ledger having never cried before over it. He was intense. No wonder the poor man overdosed; just watching the movie, he made me feel insane. He awakened a feeling in people that is scarcely brought out, and even more so avoided and covered. But I almost lost it. He was…everything. I wanted to be in his shoes. So I decided to write a story from relatively his perspective based on a daydream I couldn't shake from my head. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my newest creation:

Fana Williams, our crazy compassionate celebrity. Say it three times fast. I guarantee it'll put a smile on your face.

The wind licked at their hair, fanning it messily out behind them. The night was crisp to the cronies, the goons, the crew. His followers. And yet, as crisp and bitter as it was to them, it had no affect whatsoever on he:

The Joker.

His swished air around in his mouth, touching his tongue to the insides of his cheeks to remind himself of the scars. He gave a crooked smile in the deep night, illuminated by the eerie streetlights that made things just that more difficult. Still, what a joke! What fun it would be when they walked inside with their surprise…

"It should be on a Popsicle stick," he breathed, blinking several times. "Ha ha!"

"I'm sorry?" said one of his henchmen from behind him. He rolled his eyes. No one thought about these funny things like he did. No one got it. No one was quite so insane. He ignored the question with a sigh of, "Ahhh," and rolled his shoulders back to straighten his posture. He twirled his fingers around the handle of the gun that rested in his pocket. It was very entertaining to touch. Very entertaining indeed. Just the reminder of what it could do sent a surge of excitement through his body. The intensity…

"All righty, boys and girls," he said, flicking his head ever so slightly to the side. "Well, none of you are physically girls, but I will only dare to mention the girlish nerve and emotions some of you convey…heh…we're taking entrance! Got your guns, kids? Imagine how big of a bang we'll make. Isn't that ironic? Tonight we have a good time. I do, in one case. Flee, birdies, ha ha ha! In we go!"

The cronies ran up ahead of him at a great speed that the Joker's eyes could barely catch. "Here we go," he whispered to the night, pressing forward, taking his time. "A ball," he reminded himself. "Is it a ball?" He waited for the elevator doors to shift open, clicking his fingers together in the mean time. "Maybe I'm crazy, hah. Sure seems like a ball. Reception or something. You know, there's so many…words. I mean, really, what's the deal? Reception is a waste of space in those little pocket dictionaries that don't have enough room in all their pages anyway. A ball could just have an extra meaning, the extra being the definition of a reception. People are kind of stupid. Why does no one think of these things?" He shrugged one shoulder and tilted his head a few times. The elevator dinged and slid open. Relinquishing his frustration at the useless words like reception, he stepped in the cramped space and spun on his heel to face the direction buttons. "Here we go—upsidaisy, buddy boy," he said, pressing the button for the second floor.

He felt that little lift in his stomach that happened when an elevator gave its first jolt of motion. It made him feel a little human; just a little. It was funny, the things that bothered him now where he considered himself almost invincible. Just that tiny twitch of his insides affected him. Someone shot a bullet through his chest and it was funny; he was laughing. Someone punched him square in the face and broke his nose, he cracked up—just as figuratively as it was literal. Pain hurt, it did indeed. But something inside him leapt at the thought. Watching people on the attack was humorous. Life was a game, he knew. It was just as funny when he was kicked as it was when someone else was. His own laughs echoed in his head.

But he wasn't laughing now as the elevator went up and up, making him queasy. Curious, he thought.

Soon enough, he was walking out of the elevator, swerving down the hall. His strides felt light to him, but he could hear how heavy they were by the noise that could be heard each time his feet met the ground. He could hear the running footsteps of his henchmen ahead; he could hear the peaceful chattering of the winners of the great surprise in their little ballroom.

The boys scrambled into a different elevator. He followed, catching up. Once inside, he forced his way to the front where he would be the star. Shining, glorified star. Up, up, up, to the last floor. And the doors opened. He pushed the man in front of him in one swift motion and stepped into the cathedral-sized room. Every surprise party needed an introduction, and this one was no different. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said flatly but in a carrying voice that petrified the already stricken bystanders—even Fana Williams, who was graciously gifted with a position in the middle of a huge clutter. This clown—this interrupter—could not possibly take her hostage or anything of the sort at her give location. She blinked slowly, trying to get a good inhale. The people around her were all breathing so quickly and ferociously that there was scarcely enough air left for her. Her heart rate did not speed up. Who was this man? What was his name, his real one? The one that did not include codes or lies…

She could not detach her stare from him.

He fired his gun into the air to instill the fear. "We are tonight's entertainment," he said, the smile evident on his mouth. He traced the circle they had all made around him, held back by his armed henchmen. "Now..." he said in no more than a whisper. "...Where is Harvey Dent?"

Across the expressions of the faces he stared into, he saw only fear. Fana climbed to her toes to see over the heads of her cowering neighbors. There was one single strand of her red hair tickling over her forward that was increasingly annoying her. The massive amount of chunky mascara she had been forced to use to make her eyelashes visible was clouding her vision. Being a woman was insightfully the most irritating business in the world.

The clown was talking. His wavy, unkempt hair tinted with glowing green looked more scraggly than Fana had imagined it. He stood out—not so much by the white makeup or the raccoon circles he had in black around his glinting, dark eyes. Not even the mysterious scars made even more noticeable under the bright red slapped on smile that extended well across his cheekbones. He wore purple. Fana held in a scoff so as to seem a little less of a heartless ass. Purple was not a man color. What a fruit. He didn't look at all right in the room with endless ceilings and million dollar chandeliers. He was the only one who looked unique, excluding his masked friends. Everyone was black and white so to speak. TV evolved to color with him.

She was missing every word he said. It was hard to focus on his voice when he was standing there, looking so fantastically different. It became even more difficult when one of the women she knew escaped the crowd. She spoke, but the words did not register in Fana's mind. It was Rachel Dawes. Oh, God, why did it have to be Rachel Dawes? The nicest lady. She was strong, Fana believed. She wasn't a liar or anything. She knew this world. Not her. Too different.

"Well, hello, beautiful!" The Joker smoothed his hair back from his forehead and licked his lips. Fana cringed. He was walking towards Rachel, now with a knife in his hand. Fana did not know when he might have switched weapons and though she jogged her short-term memory, she could not remember. "You look nervous," he was saying now in a voice that falsely personified sympathy and understanding. Rachel was shrinking beneath his gaze as he circled around her. He nodded as though Rachel had answered, though he raised his eyebrows and pointed to his face. "Is it the scars?"

"Hey, wait a second." He turned his head, not before smiling. Someone had nerve. Some woman had nerve, he detailed by the voice. Two women to stand up to him all at once. The more recent speaker looked out of place at the reception…ball…party. Her hair was different. It wasn't settled, though it was tugged back relentlessly into a wavy mess, which wasn't really a mess, mess…but it was more of a cluster. Though it didn't look bad. Kudos, he said in his head, closing his eyes. Maybe she wasn't really meant to be there. I'll find out.

"Well, well, well," he said. His tongue trailed across his lower lip. "Hehe…my fair lady. What brings you to center stage in the middle of this show? 'Wait a second,' you say. Why? What am I waiting for, girly miss?" He turned his body to be parallel with her. "Is this your friend?" His gloved hands found Rachel's ear and tugged on it, but she made only a short wince, recovering quickly.

Fana realized that she had ended up in the front of her cluster. She gulped now, having only considered speaking at all from the middle, to be inconspicuous. But clearly now there was no turning back. She was standing in front of a madman with red, hungry lips. "Yes, she is my friend," Fana uttered, throwing the clown a bone. "I would like you to wait, because…" Hell, was the thrill of adventure worth the dire risk she would be putting herself at? "Because don't take her."

"That was poor grammar." Fana blinked at his rebuttal.

"Uh…well…I mean, just don't take her," she continued. "Minus the because. Don't hurt her."

"Oh, no, sweetheart." He gently shut his eyes and swayed his head from side to side, mulling over what would be the funniest move to make now. He chuckled a little before he started towards the girl with hair like cinnamon. She was rather pale, he noted. Which isn't bad at all…hehe, he thought, reminding himself of the white he had splashed over his face. She wasn't moving back, even as he was only feet away from here. "One, two…" he began counting his steps. "Three…four. No, no, no, no, dear, sweet rebel." Fana's throat tensed as his hot breath swam over her face now that he was standing straight in front of her. In her heels, there wouldn't have been a great height difference between them, but she had worn flat ballet shoes. And that unasailably made him a good amount taller. Another inch closer, she recorded, and their noses might well have touched. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had turned to the Sahara. "I'm not going to hurt her," he hissed into her face. She held her breath. "Actually…" He raised both his hands, though he held his knife in one of them. "I wasn't going to take anyone but my buddy Harvey Dent. That's D-E-N-T. But you know…" He looked behind him a few times, then turned back to face Fana. "…He doesn't seem to be here!" he whispered, stifling laughter. "Well, heh…no doubt he is, but I suddenly feel completely compelled to satisfy myself sooner rather than later. I don't want to wait around for Mr. Dent to show up. Gasp, gasp! Or better yet, you could be the bait!"

And without another word, he spun Fana around, his fingers creeping across her neck around her collarbone. He kept a tight hold on her, his knife poked delicately into her jaw. His free hand was clapped over her mouth, the leather glove tasting like the foulest, rotten substance she had ever had the misfortune to taste. She considered biting into his hand, but she knew it would only get her into more trouble.

Rachel was yelling. There was a look of utter horror on her face as the Joker backed slowly towards the elevator with Fana being dragged up against him as he went. "OK, my hearty drinkers," he said, with a smirk. He nodded at his crew to retreat, but keep their guns ready. The bystanders were still unmoving, full of fear. "This little lady isn't getting hurt," he whispered in Fana's ear so that no one else could hear. "Not today, not tomorrow, and not at any point intentionally while you are in my hands. But they don't need to know that." He looked back up at the partygoers, looking so confused and hurt and wrecked. That's all they were—a bunch of wreckage. "Bring me Harvey Dent, within three days. Hand him over to me. Have no fear, kiddies—" Quickly, so fast that Fana could barely see, he drew a card from his sleeve and flicked it out onto the floor. "—here's my card. You'll know where to find me."

Back in the elevator, the Joker tossed Fana carelessly into the corner. He knew she wouldn't dare try to escape with so many arms around her. He giggled, tossing his head back and sighing, strangely pleased with himself.

He was startled by the sound of her voice. "Where are you taking me?" she said calmly. He looked at her for a moment, feeling as though his happiness and triumph had been emptied. But he was not angry, either. He had just been drained of emotion at the sight of her disinterest in the situation. She was not squealing. Not a squealer…but boy, oh, boy, wasn't that a bummer? They were the most fun!

"My, my, we're calm aren't we?" he chanted. He snorted, suddenly somewhat annoyed. "But I prefer surprises. Games. And what fun is a game if you know exactly what's coming to you?" He winked. She made no reply but the redirection of her attention to her feet.